


Crossed Consolation

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [39]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1995-1998), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-26
Updated: 2011-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:17:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1996: Turnbull wins his crossed pistols, but it isn't quite enough.  After All the Queen's Horses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossed Consolation

His first firearms qualification had fallen short of exceptional, at least in part because of stress and exhaustion, though he had managed to pass. His second had been far better, but he'd had very little chance to practice, and therefore missed his crossed pistols by two rounds.

His third was hindered by food poisoning -- he'd missed the first shoot, had to take the reshoot while barely able to move around stomach cramps. Never again did he allow Guy to bring him lunch.

It would not have mattered so much, had he gotten to continue wearing his duty uniform, instead of the dress reds. He did want the badge for his dress uniform, he knew he was capable, but such a small token had seemed relatively unimportant while he was working on the road. He was certainly good enough to qualify each year with room to spare, at least, and everything else seemed more important.

He didn't need a marksmanship badge no one would ever see in the course of a normal day to be a good police officer; his finest badges were ones he carried internally: A child with skinned knees forgetting her tears for a ride home in the cruiser, excited by the buttons and lights and colors. An old gentleman who had accidentally slid his car into a snow bank and was shaken -- the subsequent calming talk of stone delivery techniques and curling strategy had warmed Turnbull for days afterwards, as they waited for the wrecker.

His fourth qualification, he didn't remember; it was, like everything else, a vague blur. It still didn't matter, but for other reasons now.

Now he was in Chicago. When he started having to wear the ceremonial uniform constantly, the empty red sleeve mocked him. Not in long enough for a star, not good enough for the pistols.

The staff of the Consulate went together to qualify, and he could already see the nervous glances that Fraser and Thatcher both gave him, likely thinking that he would end up shooting one of them or himself. Turnbull was ready, though. He'd been practicing. He couldn't practice firing, but he had practiced his draws, practiced speed-loading, until the motions were fluid and fast and graceful, like they once had been.

Something inside of him had snapped. If nothing else, he _knew_ he was a good shot. He _knew_ it, and he was going to prove it. He couldn't seem to get any leverage in Chicago, couldn't seem to do anything right, but what was left of a patrolman in him felt a certain crackle of anger at being dismissed outright simply because he had not yet learned how to survive behind a _desk_. He was at least a good marksman. It was something.

Turnbull went out that year with the firm intentions of winning the crown. Not just the pistols, but the crowned pistols. He went onto the range and waited quietly as Thatcher managed cool praise for Fraser's firing, who was quite a good marksman with both rifles and pistols. He waited patiently while Fraser awkwardly returned the praise after Thatcher was finished. He even gave both a polite congratulations while they admired each other's scores.

He managed to ignore them when it was his turn, though he thought perhaps they had been cringing.

He went for the crown, and missed by only one round, his third-to-last. Two hundred and forty-nine shots out of two hundred and fifty, fired accurately. It was better than both of their scores, though not by so much that he could afford to be smug. He didn't even particularly want to be smug about it. He still felt a little shot of angry pride, though, at Thatcher's expression of mild dismay and Fraser's expression of vague admiration, distant and formal. He had missed the crown, but he had at least proven _something_.

But when he looked down at the new patch on his sleeve for the first time, something inside of him sank. He wasn't sure why. It had been well and honestly earned. He wasn't even sour over the fact he'd thrown a round and missed his perfect score. But suddenly, those crossed pistols just looked...

Looked empty.

The badge on his sleeve was a poor consolation prize for the ones he used to carry where they wouldn't be seen.


End file.
